


Nightcap

by Little_Cello



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Bittersweet, Character Study, Gen, Introspection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-17
Updated: 2018-04-17
Packaged: 2019-04-24 09:21:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14352582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Little_Cello/pseuds/Little_Cello
Summary: He doesn’t really know what he’s doing here.It isn’t for want of trying; all his life, he’s looked for a place to belong, even though he wouldn’t admit it to people, and least of all himself.





	Nightcap

**Author's Note:**

> Set sometime during season 1, definitely after episode 2. Just a quick character study fic let to get a feel for the characters. Proofread only by me, so any typos and other strange things are down to myself and my tablet's overzealous autocorrect.

He doesn’t really know what he’s doing here.

 

It isn’t for want of trying; all his life, he’s looked for a place to belong, even though he wouldn’t admit it to people, and least of all himself. After what he called home was taken from him, it was the army. After that, university. It was a happy few years, at least, that much he’s willing to concede, even when hindsight is clouded by the way this particular period of time was brought to an end.

 

He has a purpose now. That has to count for something. It's hard work, and a thankless task. There is no love lost between him and his colleagues, and he never allowed himself to entertain the thought that he was actually improving lives in the first place. Nonetheless, his sharp mind is right at home in this environment, once it’s allowed to let loose. His transfer to Cowley was a blessing in that regard - he’d almost given up before DI Thursday insisted on bringing him in. It means he has a job and a steady, albeit meagre income. Maybe even something like a friend, both in the inspector and the pathologist, DeBryn. And he’s good at what he does, he knows he is.

 

And yet. And yet.

 

Morse blinks tiredly, reaching out to adjust the sheet of paper he was typing out his report on. If he gets it jammed now, he’ll have to painstakingly retype the whole thing, and he’s none too keen on that. It’s late, most of the other officers having long but packed up and gone home; in the dim light, he squints down at the keys and begins to hammer at them again, one noisy letter at a time.

 

Despite his general misgivings over such things as mechanically typed reports, Morse actually enjoys this time of the day. He's free to switch on the radio as he pleases while he works, alone with the papers and the music. Right now, it’s a broadcast of one of this summer’s early Proms concerts; Wagner’s Prelude to the first act of  _ Die Meistersinger von Nürnberg _ is now followed by the generally well-known Scherzo to A Midsummer Night’s Dream by Mendelssohn-Bartholdy. Morse can’t help a faint smile at the irony of these particular two composers being pitted against each other during the same concert. The light, flitting sound of the orchestra stands in stark contrast to the crude clack-clacking from his typewriter, and after a few seconds he reaches over to turn up the radio’s volume.

 

He doesn’t really know what he’s doing here, summarising the findings of his investigation of a spat of burglaries in Jericho. It was a dull job, the findings sparse, and Mr Bright wasn’t too pleased with it overall. Thursday gave him one of those looks when the chief super turned his back on them -  _ bear with it, it can’t all be solving murders and theatrical chases across college roofs. _

 

On the other hand, Morse doesn’t really know what he could be doing instead, either. Despite everything - despite the animosity from Jakes, the constant tension with Bright, and the dreary day-to-day dealings of the job - this is the most useful, the most  _ needed _ he remembers feeling in a very long time. Thursday looks at him with respect (mostly); sometimes even fondness, though Morse never quite knows what to do with that. Strange seems to like him, and more than once Morse has surprised himself with how little he minds the constable’s presence. And he has to admit that he never expected to come to enjoy a pathologist’s company, of all people.

 

He supposes he could have just as easily gone for a university job: lecturer, some Don’s assistant. Most officers at the nick would have put him down for that instead of what he is doing now, no doubt. But that isn’t how it played out, and he’s here now, for better or worse.

 

The Scherzo, short as it is, comes to its light-footed, woodwind driven end, as does Morse’s report. He carefully extracts the paper, doing his best not to smudge the drying ink, and switches off the radio just as the grand first chord of Poulenc’s organ concerto gives way to the quieter, but no less grave strains of the first theme. The silence left in the music’s wake feels as odd as it is comforting - the station is never this quiet during the day. It should by rights be unsettling, but for a brief moment, it fills Morse with serenity.

 

Footsteps in the hallway make him flinch, and he registers an irrational stab of guilt as he turns around. It’s Thursday.

 

“Morse? Bit late, isn’t it?’

 

Still feeling like a boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar, Morse grabs the paper and holds it up. ‘Had to finish that report Mr Bright asked for.’ That earns him a raised eyebrow, but Thursday knows him well enough by now not to find his officer’s solitary tendencies too odd.

 

‘Finished now then, are you? C’mon, let’s get you home.’

 

Morse wants to ask why the DI has come back at all - he was so certain he was alone in here, and there is no good reason for Thursday to come back to the nick at this hour, considering he’s a family man. But he drops the thought a moment later. Likewise, there is no good reason for Morse to question his DI’s movements - until the man speaks up again, his tone affable, ‘Tell you what, how about you stop by our place for a nightcap?’

 

Pulling on his coat, Morse can’t quite hide the questioning look on his face, and Thursday, interpreting it correctly, shakes his head. ‘Win won’t mind. She’s been going on about how I should invite you round for tea.’

 

Morse feels his ears reddening. It shouldn’t matter, not really, but something about the statement makes emotions he doesn’t quite want to identify rise within him.

 

‘I wouldn’t want to impose…’

 

‘You wouldn’t,’ Thursday interrupts, his tone mild and firm at the same time, which Morse thinks is an impressive feat. It makes him smile for a brief moment, and Thursday uses that moment to usher him out of the office. Morse lets him, too worn out from the day’s struggles to really protest.

 

He may not really know what he’s doing here, part of the police force in Oxford, a place that’s never afforded him enough kindness to justify all the heartbreak it has put him through. But right now, slipping into the Jag, Morse allows himself to feel - not settled, exactly, but not quite as lost either. Next to him, Thursday’s posture is easy and relaxed, showing that he’s secretly pleased with his de-facto bagman’s pliance. They drive away from the station in comfortable silence; for once, Morse doesn’t feel the need to switch on the radio.

**Author's Note:**

> *waves shyly* Hiiii. Most of you know me as a fan artist for this fandom, but I do like writing as well... However, the only fandom I've ever written for, and have been writing for the last nearly six years, is Life on Mars - which in terms of characters, relationships and tone is pretty much the exact diametric opposite of Morse/Lewis/Endeavour. :'D The show has become so ingrained in my brain, plus, since moving to the city nearly three years ago, I've become a Manchester lass through and through, so getting into "Oxford mode", if you will, was a huge challenge... Hence the choice of a character study instead of diving into the deep end. But I enjoyed it! And I hope you did as well. <3


End file.
